


And I a Maid at Your Window

by Meridians_of_Madness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Caning, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Consensual Non-Consent, F/F, Face Slapping, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Prostitution Roleplay, Safeword Use, Sex Toys, Sexual Roleplay, Slut Shaming, Strap-Ons, Threats, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Victorian era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22222249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness
Summary: Crowley has a fantasy, Aziraphale has a righteous streak, and it actually works out pretty well.*Filled for the kink meme prompt locatedhere
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 267
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations





	And I a Maid at Your Window

“My gracious, what a pathetic thing,” came the voice from inside the hackney carriage, and Crowley straightened up with irritated dignity.

“Piss off,” she snapped. “It's business hours, and I've not the time for lookers who aren't buyers.”

“Who says I am not a buyer?”

Crowley tilted her head at that, scowling at the soft cultured voice.

“What, are you looking to set up as the new Mrs Berkley or something? I'm not planning on giving over my fees for the fun of getting fucked over a silk cushion.”

The carriage's inhabitant, her face obscured by the baize curtain hung over the window, actually laughed at that.

“No, my dear, neither a flesh-monger, nor a woman looking to please a beastly husband, if that was your next guess. I merely want to buy... let us say, a few hours of your time.”

Crowley hung further back in the doorway even as her heart beat a little faster. Even if the angel kept her voice as smooth and prim as a church pamphlet, there was something unsavory in her tone, something _wanting,_ and dear Satan, but Crowley would never get tired of it.

“A few hours of my time... what for?”

“Why, for the salvation of your soul.”

Crowley didn't have feign a laugh at that.

“For that old thing? You could buy it for the price of a drink.”

“What will two hours of your time cost me, then?”

Crowley named her price, twice the going rate, and behind the baize curtain, she could almost feel the angel smile with pleasure.

“All right then. More than fair. Come along, then.”

The carriage door swung open, but the narrow step was slippery, Crowley might have tripped right back onto the cobbles if a strong soft arm hadn't shot out to drag her the rest of the way up. One moment she was falling, and the next she was pulled up into the carriage and settled on the seat beside...

Fucking _Satan,_ but Aziraphale was gorgeous in cream silk. Her fashionable pelisse rustled enticingly as she shifted her skirts to make room for Crowley's narrow form. She fairly glowed by the light reflected from the carriage lamp, and it was all Crowley could do not to reach out and trace the soft skin of her neck by her diamond earrings or to blow a little puff of powder from the barely-revealed hollow of her throat.

“I think you will find tonight very improving, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a smile, and remembering the game, Crowley's suddenly nervous swallow was not altogether a play.

*

The townhouse on Grosvernor Square was dark when they alighted from the carriage, the servants likely sent out for the night and only a few lamps left burning. Crowley followed the strange woman who had picked her up through the dark halls, glancing around at the fine furnishings speculatively.

 _A good band of thieves could clear this place right out,_ she thought idly. _Be a hell of a job pawning it all, but you could live for a bit on all of this..._

“What are you thinking?” the woman- Mrs Fell, she had introduced herself as Mrs Fell- asked without turning around.

“About...the sorry state of my soul and how p'rhaps I ought to mend my ways?”

Mrs Fell chuckled at that, not a nice sound at all.

“A whore and a liar as well. I suppose I have my work cut out for me.”

Oh, Crowley knew what Mrs Fell's sort considered _work_. She would sit Crowley in some terribly hard chair and then spend an hour or two reading to her from some desperately dull screed about the righteousness of Heaven or some other nonsense. Perhaps she would earnestly explain that Crowley's soul was worth saving, and that there was none fallen so low as to be beyond the Ineffable's forgiveness. All the while, it would Crowley doing the _real_ work which was to sit and look properly contrite or enraptured as the situation demanded, perhaps even producing a few sad tears as she thought about things she wasn't in the least sorry for.

Well, the money was good, at least.

“In here.”

Instead of a lady's solar or a parlor, Mrs Fell led her into a library, a deep tall room lined with bookshelves. Crowley looked around curiously as Mrs Fell lit the lamps, bathing the space in a warm light.

“So you're going to read to me?” Crowley asked. “All that money you spent, and you're going to read to me.”

“Oh, rather not. I only read to people I actually like.”

Crowley let the little dig spark across her heart, because that one was true. It let her straighten herself up and turn a haughty look on the rich woman as she came back to stand close to Crowley.

“All right, no reading. What's your pleasure, then? Do you want to tell me what a wretched little tart I am and how I should turn myself into the poorhouse? Or perhaps we should sing some nice psalms together?”

When Mrs Fell didn't answer her, Crowley narrowed her eyes, let a sly smile cross her face.

“Or maybe you think salvation is best accomplished kneeling? You needn't fuss with the rest with someone like _me,_ Mrs Fell, if that is what you are after. I've done it a time or two with girls, and if you really want to see God-”

The slap was not unexpected, but it was stunning. Mrs. Fell's hand crashed into Crowley's cheek, spinning her a bit and making her stumble. There was a moment of numbness followed by a hot bloom of pain, and involuntarily, Crowley's eyes filled with tears.

“You bloody _bitch-!”_

The second blow, on the same spot, made Crowley cry out, and then a strong hand was wrapping around her arm and dragging her to the desk at the end of the library.

“What a _mouth_ you have on you, and who in the world knows where you've put it? It is an ugly thing you are doing, and you do not even recognize its ugliness, do you?”

“You didn't pay to do _this_ to me, let me go this instant or-”

“I could let you go. I could _also_ give your description to the constables, let them know which red-haired whore I found rifling my jewelry box. They'd have you inside of an hour, I daresay.”

“I've been run in before,” Crowley growled, but her voice was losing its assurance.

“Not for burgling a woman of quality,” said Mrs Fell. “They'd keep you at least a year for that, I should think, a full year of silence, without seeing the light, in the muck and the cold. If you are lucky, they would let you off with a flogging, and what sight you would be then, your dress whipped off your shoulders...”

Crowley could imagine those things altogether too well, and unbidden, tears leaped to her eyes.

“No,” she whispered. “No, please, ma'am...”

“Then do as your told. You certainly have the experience for that, don't you? Given your profession, I would think that that should come naturally, no matter how filthy the request.”

Crowley nodded, and then her teeth clicked together when Mrs Fell gave her a brisk shake.

“Answer me properly.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Crowley whispered, and Mrs Fell nodded.

“All right. Over the desk. I cannot imagine that this is the first time you have been ordered into _that_ position.”

Crowley winced as she stretched over the desk, the edge of the glossy wood digging into her belly. Some of the reformers were mad for proper English discipline. Was she going to get caned? She hated it, but she could bear it, could bear anything so long as they didn't put her in a cell...

She gasped a little as Mrs Fell lifted the edge of her skirt. Instead of pinning it up for a caning, however, she was doing something else, and it took Crowley a moment to place the sound of scissors biting into cloth. For a moment, she thought that the madwoman was taking a shred of her skirt as some kind of demented trophy, but then Crowley realized that Mrs Fell was snipping her way straight up.

“Oh, no, ma'am, please!” she cried, her heart dropping. “Please, this is the only good skirt I have...”

“Then it should suit your station a little better, shouldn't it?” came the heartless response. “Might as well make it easier for those men who pay for your charms to get to them...”

Crowley shook as Mrs. Fell cut her way up her skirts, and she didn't stop at her bodice either. Instead she continued all the way up until the black dress fell limply around Crowley's sides. Then she gave Crowley's shift the same treatment, all the way up to her stays. Taking both cut edges in her hands, she ripped them apart so they hung to either side of Crowley's narrow hips. She was bare below the waist now, and the cool air in the room raised gooseflesh on her thighs Crowley was suddenly aware that one of her garters has snapped earlier, letting her left stocking slide down to her ankle. She felt... bare and ridiculous, humiliated at the fact that this woman could buy this from her with money and a cheap threat.

“Skinny little thing, but not without your appeal, I suppose,” Mrs Fell sniffed.

Crowley wondered if she should reply but then Mrs Fell's hands were on her stays. Crowley thought that she was cutting the laces at the sides, completing the picture, but instead she was... what in the world _was_ she doing? A shift in the garment gave her the answer a moment later, but it was still confusing. For some reason, she had snipped out one of the bones from its channel, allowing her to slide out a thin strip of the baleen used stiffen the stays.

“Reach back. Hold yourself open for me,” she said, and Crowley froze.

 _No, no, no, she_ can't...

A brisk smack with the stiff strip of baleen to her rear made her cry out.

“ _Now,_ miss, or shall I call the constable after all? What do you think they would do to you if you had to go to the gaol with your clothes like that.”

Crowley whined, and shaking, reached back to do as she was told, digging her fingers into her buttocks and spreading herself open for Mrs Fell. She shook at knowing how very much her tormentor could see, and she shut her eyes tight, trying to prepare for what she knew was coming next.

Then Mrs. Fell sent the narrow flexible length of baleen snapping down between her cheeks, and Crowley realized that there was absolutely no preparing for _that_ kind of pain at all. She yelled, but somehow didn't let go. Her legs shook, and if she hadn't been bent over the desk, she would have curled up from the pain at having her arsehole so briskly struck. The pain swelled, raw, red and unbearable, and despite the cold of the room, Crowley broke into a sweat, panting against the raw terror of it.

“ _Please,_ ma'am, don't-!”

Another strike. This time the very tip of the baleen caught her right on the rim of her hole, and there was no way to stifle the howl that was torn from her. It hurt so badly that Crowley thought she might discorporate on the spot. It was pure agony focused on such a terribly private part of the body, and the third blow, lighter that the first, forced tears from the corner of her eyes.

“It hurts, it hurts, ma'am, please-”

“Of course it hurts,” Mrs Fell said, unearthly calm. “It must hurt, or you will continue to believe that what you are doing is appropriate. Lessons are best learned in the flesh for your kind, and I do not think you will be forgetting this lesson any time soon.”

There was another strike, and then another, and Crowley dug her fingernails into her own flesh, trying to tell herself that this wasn't happening, that she _wasn't_ getting her arsehole caned to pieces, that it wasn't for some reason, leaving her wet and aching and wanting as well.

The sixth strike, and Crowley couldn't stop herself from letting go and leaping up, a full scream tearing from her throat. She couldn't bear another, and when Mrs Fell pushed her back down, she started to sob in panic.

“Oh, don't _snivel,_ girl,” Mrs Fell said testily. “You ought to be used to attentions paid to that area.”

“Not like that, oh, not like that,” Crowley cried, burying her face in her hands. “Oh ma'am, let me go, please, I'll be good, I'll...”

“I have two hours, or have you forgotten? I can't imagine that your gentlemen let you go merely because you cried.”

Crowley winced in advance of another smack, but it never came. Instead, Mrs Fell came around the desk to Crowley's head, opening one of the desk drawers to reveal a contraption of leather straps and...

Crowley's eyes went wide, and all she could do was stare as Mrs Fell expertly strapped the intimidating ivory phallus between her legs, She caught a glimpse of dark leather straps biting into soft milky thighs, and then Mrs Fell allowed her skirts to drop down over them again.

“I suppose you know what comes next...”

Crowley couldn't imagine doing anything like that after the adrenaline that had crashed through her system already. She was sore, she ached, she wanted to go home and pretend that she had never met the terrible Mrs Fell.

She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes.

“I don't want to...”

“You little tart, I do not care.”

Something went out of Crowley at that, and she hid her face in her hands as Mrs Fell went around behind her again. She couldn't, oh she _couldn't,_ but then when she felt the tip of the cool phallus nudging between her damp lips, she realized that could or not, she had to.

“My goodness, you are _positively soaked._ One would think you had been made for this disgrace...”

Crowley wanted to protest, but instead she only yowled as Mrs Fell pushed into her in one long smooth stroke. The phallus was wider than it had seemed, stretching her out and making it hard to catch her breath. She was wet, and after what Mrs Fell had done with the baleen, so oversensitive that she thought she might shake to pieces.

Despite it, as Mrs Fell stroked into her, the smoothness of her motions and the humiliation of it all heightened a deep pleasure in her that had sparked the first moment that she had heard the word _pathetic_ from the angel's lips. It was the pain and the degradation and the terrible fear and longing and cruelty, and perhaps it was a bit what she knew was underneath it as well, but her body tightened, and she found herself braced for the punishing strokes rather than limp underneath them, something that did not escape Mrs Fell's notice.

“Filthy little harlot,” she said angrily. “Just _look_ at you, taking pleasure from this. How _dare_ you...”

As she spoke those words, however, Crowley became aware of a tingle on her clit, the sly hint of a miracle pressing firm invisible fingers against the crest of her slit, rubbing firmly in just the way she liked best as Aziraphale drove into her from behind. Caught between the twin sensations, Crowley whined, biting her wrist to try to stay suspended between them rather than falling as she knew she had to do, but it was no use.

Aziraphale was relentless, and Crowley had never, ever been able to resist her, ever, not in six thousand years. She belonged to the angel, and she knew it best when she was underneath her, taking her, cracking herself open if she had to...

She cried out when she came, thrashing under the angel's weight, flailing enough to knock a steel paperweight off the desk and send it clattering to the floor. Still the angel didn't stop, and Crowley rode the wave of her climax into a dizzying floating kind of pleasure one that was punctuated with the pleasure of being able to say _no_ over and over again while knowing it would not mean a single damned thing...

“Foul little _beast,_ ” Aziraphale hissed. “Imagine drawing pleasure from this! Well, I am sure I know something that you won't like half as much...”

Aziraphale drew out of her with a quick backwards slide, and then Crowley's eyes went wide as she felt the tip of the ivory phallus pressed against her rear hole. The welts left from the baleen had quieted down, but they woke in angry heat again as Aziraphale started to push forward.

For a moment, Crowley thought for certain that she would allow it to happen, that her overwhelming hunger for more and more and _more_ would make her simply drop down and take it, but then she shook her head.

“ _Cressida_ , angel... Cressida, I'm done...” she gasped, and Aziraphale pulled back immediately.

There was a shimmer of a miracle, and then Aziraphale was helping Crowley to her feet, no phallus in sight. Crowley leaned heavily into the angel's body, allowing Aziraphale to all but carry her to the chaise nearby. She came to rest on her side, Aziraphale sitting at her head. After a few slow breaths and the angel rubbing soothing circles into her back, she pulled herself up so that her cheek rested against Aziraphale's silk-clad thigh, nuzzling it gratefully.

“All right, darling girl?”

“Fuck... fucking _fuck,_ angel...”

Aziraphale chuckled, pleased.

“Is that a yes?” Under the teasing tone, Crowley could hear the slight thread of anxiety underneath it, and she nodded.

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes,” Crowley said, because when she was being that sincere, she had to cloak it in a joke. But it was a _literary_ joke, which meant it was for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale smiled.

“I'm not certain that dear Jane would quite approve of all this...”

“'Course she would. It's got, you know, social commentary and banter an' everything.”

“My dear, a rich woman bullying someone who is just trying to get by is _not_ social commentary, and if that was your idea of banter, why, I suppose that's why you were so fond of Middleton...”

“Angel, angel, this is _not_ the time to be criticizing my literary credentials,” Crowley groaned. “Think of the wretched night I have had, taken to a rich lecherous woman's house-”

“ _Your_ house.”

“-and subjected to all sorts of horrid humiliations-”

“Which we discussed beforehand...”

“And now I being criticized for loving the Jacobeans, _my_ Jacobeans...”

“All right, I'll stop. But... but you are well, my dear?”

“Very, I promise, angel. Exactly what I wanted. Thank you.”

“Then...”

“Yes?”

“May I have a kiss?”

The request, shy, small, and so terribly _soft_ made Crowley's heart squeeze in a way she wasn't sure that a demon's heart should be able to do, and ignoring the twinge of delicious soreness between her legs, she rolled up to give the angel a kiss, as sweet as she could manage on her mouth.

It didn't feel like kissing and holding Aziraphale usually did. Too much paint, too much powder, too much satin, but it was still her. Crowley would know her blindfolded and gagged. She would know her whether Aziraphale was kissing her or caning her, calling her a whore or her darling girl, and she knew it all meant one and the same thing.

It always had.


End file.
